


Conoscere

by TransManWillGraham (BisexualHannibalLecter)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, Mischa Lecter Lives, Misgendering, Past Character Death, Pining, Trans Hannibal Lecter, Trans Male Character, Trans Will Graham, deadnaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BisexualHannibalLecter/pseuds/TransManWillGraham
Summary: Some evenings, when he has all but bared his soul to the man over a glass of wine, he’s overcome so strongly with the need for reciprocity that it nearly drives him to boldness. He thinks about asking Hannibal about his past outright. He thinks about listening to Hannibal prattle on for hours in the dim office about his life as the bottle slowly empties and his eyelids grow heavy. He thinks about holding Hannibal, cradling him close as he wrenches all of his secrets and regrets out of him. He thinks about knowing Hannibal, and how he does not know Hannibal, and he aches.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 170





	Conoscere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cowfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowfish/gifts).



> Here's my big brained trans!Hannibal fic, enjoy the yearning
> 
> Title is the Italian verb meaning "to know"

Will found that he knew very little about Hannibal. He also found that he understood even less than what he knew.

He knew Hannibal had been an orphan. He knew Hannibal’s parents died. He knew Hannibal’s sister also died, leaving him with trauma Will had only glimpsed during shared glances and sparse conversation about her. He knew Hannibal’s uncle Robertus and aunt Murasaki had adopted him at 16. He knew Hannibal was raised in Italy from then on, eventually moving to America, becoming a surgeon, and then leaving the field for psychiatry. 

He knew so little in detail about the man before they had met, and could barely put together a picture from the pieces he had. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t even find Hannibal all that interesting. 

Except he did.

Will Graham found every available detail about Hannibal Lecter interesting. He wanted to know more; he was desperate to paint a picture of the man’s life— past, present, and future. He found doing so, however, to be difficult when even his most subtle tactics at learning more about Hannibal were shot down by the doctor effortlessly.

He wanted the man to crack. He wanted to open him up and _see_ him. He wants to feel him, to touch him, to taste him— he wants every single sense of his to be alight with Hannibal’s presence.

Some evenings, when he has all but bared his soul to the man over a glass of wine, he’s overcome so strongly with the need for reciprocity that it nearly drives him to boldness. He thinks about asking Hannibal about his past outright. He thinks about listening to Hannibal prattle on for hours in the dim office about his life as the bottle slowly empties and his eyelids grow heavy. He thinks about holding Hannibal, cradling him close as he wrenches all of his secrets and regrets out of him. He thinks about knowing Hannibal, and how he does not know Hannibal, and he aches.

Will ignores the ache, but it never subsides. He feeds the ache sometimes, usually at night, in the shower or under his sheets, or in the mornings, when he caresses the empty space next to him. He doesn’t ache just for sex, or just for love, or just for truth. He aches for Hannibal and all that his presence entails.

He aches to _know_ Hannibal in every sense of the word.

* * *

Will finds his prayers inexplicably answered one day while in Hannibal’s study.

Will sips whiskey from a glass as he slowly swivels in Hannibal’s desk chair, occasionally catching the other man’s eye as he turns to face him. Hannibal never shows signs of annoyance or discomfort, and that only raises more questions for Will, who has found himself to be the only person capable of inserting himself into Hannibal’s personal space in this way with no buffering whatsoever. He wonders how he managed to climb over Hannibal’s walls so quickly, even if the innermost layers remained unseen.

They continue to bask in the comfortable silence, barely a word spoken since Will arrived, but eventually the calm and quiet gets boring. Will twirls around again, looking for something, anything that might spark a conversation, but he sees nothing.

Eventually, Hannibal excuses himself to pour another glass for the both of them, and Will takes the opportunity to check the desk drawers while he’s gone. He finds nothing of note— just office supplies and various documents —until he reaches the bottom drawer on the right. Hidden under a stack of papers and a couple of empty file folders is a few photographs poking out of an old envelope.

Will pulls the envelope out of the drawer, removing the photographs, and finding a letter tucked inside as well. Will reads the front of the envelope, seeing it’s addressed to Hannibal, and his eyes widen upon reading the name headlining the return address.

_Mr & Mrs. Lecter _

Will pulls out the letter and unfolds it, catching a glimpse of the date at the top.

_December 6th, 1995_

Will drops the letter.

Will knew Hannibal was an orphan. Will knew Hannibal’s parents died when he was a teenager. So why was there a letter from his parents dated only fifteen years ago?

Will picks the letter back up, glancing at the top again, and he begins to read. He stops when he’s two words in.

 _Dear Mischa,_ the letter begins. Will drops it again.

Will knew Hannibal’s sister Mischa had died when she was a child. So why were his parents writing to her?

Will abandons the letter for a moment, eyes locking on the photographs. One is of a man, a woman, a young girl, and a baby. The second is of a man, a woman, a preteen girl, and a toddler. The next is of a teenage girl and a young boy, the same young pair shown in the previous photos. Will realizes that the images are depicting the siblings growing older. The young girl’s face holds some semblance of familiarity, but Will can’t understand why. He grabs the last photo, and his mind comes to a grinding halt as the pieces fall into place.

The last photo shows a teenage girl with the same man and woman from the first two photos, but they seem to have aged beyond their years. The young boy is missing. Will’s blood runs cold.

He turns the photograph over and finds writing on the back.

_20-1-1981_

20-1. January 20th.

Will thumbs the edge of the photo, wondering if the date was purely coincidental.

There’s a sigh, and Will’s head snaps up.

“How long have you been standing there?” Will asks.

“Long enough,” Hannibal responds, setting Will’s glass down. “You do know it’s rude to go through someone else’s possessions, don’t you?”

“You do know it’s rude to lie, don’t you?” Will fires back.

The light in Hannibal’s eyes disappears, and he slips behind the veil.

Will’s heart clenches, but he presses on.

“You said your parents are dead.”

Hannibal looks away. “They might as well be. I am dead to them.”

“Why?” Will asks. 

For a while, Hannibal doesn’t respond. His form is rigid and his nails dig into his palms. The veil is beginning to tear. Will can see the conflict in Hannibal’s eyes and he wonders what could possibly be the cause.

Finally, he says, “Because I killed their daughter.” Hannibal’s fingers relax, the digits somewhat mechanical as they move, straightening out joint by joint.

Will feels as if the world around him has collapsed, leaving him and Hannibal in the center of the rubble. The veil has fallen once more, replaced by the latest wall Will has yet to scale. He feels as though it has grown.

The unreadable expression on Hannibal’s face never wavers. The conflict in his eyes continues to rage. Will wonders if Hannibal thinks he made a mistake.

“My parents and Mischa are dead,” Hannibal says, “but not in the way that you’re thinking.”

Hannibal has always been cryptic, has also spoken so metaphorically, but Will can no longer deal with it. He feels as though he’s been knocked off his feet, and he can’t stop himself from snapping as the apprehension of the situation eats at him.

“Then how?” Will asks. He reaches for the letter and the photographs. “What does this mean? Who are these people in the pictures? Why did your supposedly dead parents address a letter to you fifteen years ago, but write it to your dead sister?” Will isn’t sure if it’s his need to understand or his fear of the unknown, but he suddenly blurts, “Hannibal, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Hannibal walks over to Will and gently takes the photos from his hands, laying them out on the desk. “These are all of me with my family. This last one in particular was taken on my sixteenth birthday.”

Will nods. “I saw the date on the back. But why is it just Mischa? Where are you? And how is this Mischa if you’re the older sibling?”

Hannibal takes a deep breath. “I _am_ the older sibling.”

“Then who is the little boy? And why isn’t he in the picture?” Will’s blood runs cold again. “Hannibal, where’s the little boy?”

“He was my brother,” Hannibal says. “He’s dead. Truly dead.” He smiles bitterly. “The lies were so much simpler, Will. So much better. Mischa dies. My parents die. Hannibal lives. I like that story much better.”

“Hannibal you’re not making any sense,” Will says, tugging his sleeve. “What happened to your brother? What happened to Mischa?”

Hannibal continues to stare at the photos. “He died,” he whispers. “And I lived. Don’t you understand, Will?”

“Understand _what_?”

Hannibal grabs the last photo, shoving it in Will’s face. “Look,” he says. “Tell me what you see.”

Will looks at the photo, then at Hannibal. There’s an obvious resemblance between him and the much younger Mischa, but it’s almost uncanny.

_I am dead to them._

_I killed their daughter._

_. . . my sixteenth birthday._

_I_ am _the older sibling._

_He died, and I lived._

_Look._

Oh.

“You’re Mischa,” Will breathes.

Hannibal smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s full of relief and bitterness and sorrow. “Not anymore.” He grabs the first photo, the one showing him, his parents, and the baby. “I realized I wasn’t a woman a few months before his accident,” Hannibal says. “I didn’t know how to tell my parents. Or when. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. Mourning my brother weighed heavily upon me, and it worsened the stress I experienced from continuing to live as a girl.”

Will doesn’t speak, only stares wide-eyed at Hannibal as he explains.

“I told them on my sixteenth birthday.” He chuckles humorlessly. “They did not take it well. Soon after, I was living with my aunt and uncle in Florence. Robertus was very supportive, but Murasaki understood me.”

“Was she trans?” Will asks.

Hannibal nods slowly, surprised by Will suddenly speaking again. “Yes, she is. She helped me in becoming the man I am today.” Hannibal smiles softly to himself, genuinely this time. “I don’t know where I would be without her, truthfully.”

So Robertus and Murasaki are still alive. Will files that information away for later.

Will taps his fingers on the desk as he and Hannibal lapse into silence, which soon becomes awkward for him. He takes a deep breath.

“I shouldn’t have gone through your things,” he says. “It was rude of me, and it forced you in a position to come out to me before you were ready, and I apologize.”

Hannibal hums, but he doesn’t look at Will. He gathers the photos and the letter and begins to tuck them back into the envelope.

“I forgive you,” he says, placing the envelope in the same spot where Will had retrieved it from. “While it does not excuse your actions, I had been planning on telling you for some time now. I was simply unaware of how it would impact our relationship.”

There’s an emotion in Hannibal’s voice that Will knows all too well.

“I understand,” he says, standing up.

Hannibal looks at Will, his eyes saying, _no, you don’t understand,_ even as his lips remain still. 

Will, determined to show Hannibal just how much he understands, grabs Hannibal’s hands and guides them under the hem of his shirt. Hannibal locks eyes with Will, and Will can see the gears turning; curiosity brimming like tears and a special kind of fear radiating from his hands as they shake.

“Will, what—” Hannibal starts, fingers twitching as they meet warm skin.

“I understand,” Will says again, guiding Hannibal’s hands farther up. He takes his time, keeps eye contact despite the discomfort, watching Hannibal as though he were a cornered, wounded animal. “It’s okay,” he says without meaning to, his thumbs rubbing gently against the indents in Hannibal’s palms.

Hannibal does not understand. Not until the tips of his fingers graze swaths of skin baring a different texture. Hannibal touches the skin again, making out two distinct lines of scar tissue on Will’s chest. The tissue is smooth, not knotted— the remnants of something professional. Something surgical.

Hannibal’s eyes widen.

“It seems we had the same worry on our minds,” he says, utterly shocked by the revelation. 

Hannibal’s eyes drift down, following the bumps of his knuckles through the thin material of Will’s t-shirt as his fingers trace the scars over and over, almost as if he is entranced by the feeling.

Will’s hands settle on Hannibal’s hips, fingers gently tugging at his shirt where it’s still tucked into his pants, regardless of his forgotten jacket and vest.

“I’ll admit, I feel like an idiot for not putting the pieces together. I guess my anxieties blindsided me,” Will says, worrying the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt between his fingers.

Hannibal, knowing what Will wants, feels out of breath. “I suppose so,” he replies, fingers twitching again. He swallows. “Will…”

Will’s fingers move up Hannibal’s shirt, finding their way to his top button. “May I?” he asks softly, searching Hannibal’s face for any sign of discomfort. “I want to see you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t trust his own mouth for once, so he nods.

Will takes his time, baring Hannibal’s neck first. He gets further down, sees the first peak of chest hair, and even further still, catching a glimpse of Hannibal’s scars, certainly older than his own. He reaches Hannibal’s belt, at which point he untucks his shirt so that he can finish unbuttoning it, leaving Hannibal’s chest bare. He raises a hand, runs his fingers along one of the scars, and he feels one of Hannibal’s own hands against his cheek. He had not even been aware of the hand leaving his chest.

Will tilts his head up, meeting Hannibal’s gaze once again, and realizes he cannot see Hannibal’s face properly. He blinks, tears falling and his vision clearing, only to see that Hannibal is just as emotional.

Neither of them say a word as they draw closer, meeting in the middle after what feels like hours. Their tears mingle as they kiss, and their hands grow more confident in their explorations, though they stay confined to each other’s torsos.

Will moves his head, pressing his mouth to Hannibal’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone— ending with his lips meeting one of Hannibal’s scars, then the other, before returning to Hannibal’s own lips.

“I want to know you,” he whispers against Hannibal’s mouth, thumbs caressing the outer edges of Hannibal’s scars. It feels like a confession.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Hannibal, and Will pulls away.

“Should I stop?” he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. “I want you to know me.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to know you.” 

Will kisses him again and pulls him out of the study, following his lead up the stairs. They catch themselves in tears on the top step, and again as they tumble onto the bed together.

“Why are you crying?” Will asks, wiping Hannibal’s tears away.

Hannibal’s brow furrows. “I don’t know. I feel… overwhelmed. I’ve never…”

“With another man?” Will asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. “With another man like myself.”

Will’s breath stalls in his lungs.

“Why are _you_ crying?” Hannibal asks.

Will can’t help but smile. “Because I love you.”

Hannibal kisses him, harder this time, like he’ll never kiss him again.

“I love you, too.”

He felt Hannibal’s body against his own, felt his mouth and his hands and his scars, and warmth spread through him, soothing the ache that had pulsed within him for months now. He still had a lot to learn about his new lover, but the thought of learning slowly no longer pained him. Hannibal was an ocean waiting to be explored, and Will was content with the thought of a long expedition.

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically, my idea for this fic came from thinking, for whatever reason, "What if Mischa "dying" is symbolism for Hannibal realizing he's trans" bc I'm dumb and trans, and then it spiraled from there.
> 
> If you liked this story please leave a kudos! Comments are super appreciated! If you want to find/follow/friend me on other platforms, here are my usernames! Don’t be shy! 
> 
> @bisexywill on Tumblr (Main Blog)  
> @bisexual-hannibal-lecter on Tumblr (Writing Blog)  
> @bisexywill on Twitter (Writing Updates & Stuff)  
> @baby mongoose#6953 on Discord


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